Our Many Facets
by InvisibleGeek
Summary: Two souls, raised in seclusion and safety, separate from the dangers of Skyrim, venture out into their wild country. One searches for acceptance, the other for an escape. Can their true natures survive in the cruel world? Or will they mold and change, and become their fears? Nord o.c. Orc o.c. *On Hold*
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue:**

The white sun brightened as it climbed higher in the pale sky, temperature changing as the dawn slipped smoothly into a lazy morning. It's soft rays awoke life below, and as the nocturnal animals returned to their dark holes the creatures of daylight made their routine rounds.

A lean and graceful deer, her long legs elegantly avoiding rocks and roots, dipped her head towards a small stream and sated her thirst. A small rabbit bounded past, the skittish mammal jolting her senses into sharp alert. Her head shot up, soft nose dripping snowmelt from the near mountains and snout glimmering in the light. She blinked, searching carefully around her, before lowering her ears, relaxing. She stood a good distance away from an Orc Stronghold, the gray, rocking hills rolling up beneath juniper trees and mustard grass.

The home for the warrior people was surrounded by tough, well maintenanced walls. Trees fell to axes then transported back to the mine, shaved to a point towards the top and embedded in the ground. No one made it over the walls, and few had tried, intimidated by the stone like men guarding with vigilance. Those who neared from the outside were warned to back off, and attacked with protective fury should they linger.

Within the intimidating walls of Dushnik Yal, a healthy community thrived, though a stranger wouldn't know it by the gruff exterior of the scowling peoples. They were hard working, stern and irritable, and their every action was supervised by the warrior chief, who remained in power so long as he remained strongest.

Unlike other villages in Skyrim, they didn't decorate. No flowers were planted and no finery was found. They put stock in the number of scars a citizen had, and how many notches his axe carried. It was violently competitive, and due to their fierce ambitions and distrust of the lack there was no room for weakness of any kind.

The sun had barely risen, yet a stir livened the community this fateful morning.

A horse had arrived at the Stronghold's gate, the once well feed but currently overworked beast obediently carrying an Orcish man. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak, a strange thing for an Orc to do, and he pulled his steeds reigns with a single hand. The other was tucked beneath the gray, mud splattered fabric, clung to his chest as though cradling an injury.

A guard looked at the man below, and snorted, thinking him to be a weakling mage searching for refuge. The wilds of skyrim are no place to linger, year by the look of his tattered cloak and thin horse he had been doing just so for quite some time. "Greetings!" The stranger bellowed below, voice strained but polite. The glint of his jutted tusks escaped the shadows of his cowl, but the rest of his features unseen.

The Orcish guard gave him a glance over, then beckoned to his partner. The other shared his narrowed concern, and they hissed at one another. "Should we grant him entrance? He lacks the strength of a true fighter." The other's lips thinned in distaste. "I agree, but would it not be undignified to deny a brother his due? He's no mage."

The other gripped his axe tighter, snarling. "Where does your knowledge on mages originate? You're still weaning from your mother's milk."

"What's that?" The younger guard challenged, eyes flashing.

"You heard me." The older growled, his pointed yellow teeth tilted forwards in a subtle display of superiority.

Several awakened Orcs stood before the gate's opposite side, raised faces watching the conversation guards with suspicion. An older female, head shaved and muscles all but deteriorated, shouted up at the bickering pair, her skin furrowing around ivory horns. "Silence the both of you! Watch the stranger!" She turned to her child, a tough youngster with thick brown hair. Her skin was fair for an orc, and many amongst the community whispered her to become quite lovely with age, her forehead lined with tiny white dots, the beginnings of her horns. "Get your father, be timely." The older female ordered, and was met with a sharp nod, the little tike rushing on short legs to the long house.

The guards, parted now but still irritated, eyed the stranger, whose arm moved occasionally beneath the cloak. The house snorted and would stomp it's hooves impatiently, ready to rest and be combed and fed.

"What of your name, stranger?" The younger Orc asked, still curious of the outside world and it's inhabitants. The man looked up at the gruff voice, ceasing his fidgeting with his arm. "Gorhbash.." He answered, voice strong with Orcish pride. His name held worth, he had the scars to prove it.

The bundle tucked beneath his cloak squirmed, and the stirrings of shame rose like hot air in his stomach. Pide was not a deserved emotion.

"I'm here to rejoin the stronghold, if the chief will take me." His voice didn't shake, they held the same backbone they always did. Still, the snort of the older guard sent chills down his spine, the hot flash of panic that this wouldn't work out, that he had nowhere to go.

He pulled the hidden child closer to his chest, his horse shifting restlessly letting out a snort.

Above him the younger guard shifted to the right, making room for the respected incomer. The Chief stood atop the platform, the familiar curvature of his horns and his narrowed, black eyes sent waves of dismay through Gorbash.

The new orc chief was his very own sibling, the one who had despised his choices most.

Burguk.

* * *

Across the countryside, lodged deep within the canyon of tears, was Rendspire Palace. The hidden beast of a home was cut off from the outside world, heavily guarded and secluded. The Wars that tore the land of Tamriel couldn't reach the place, nor the Lord and his family.

While walking down one of the many corridors, Radella, one of the guardswoman, collapsed. Her helmet tumbled from her head, the metal clang of fine steel against smooth stone alerting the nearest person. The guardsmen rushed over to her trembling form, her strong teeth clenched and face blotched with red spots. Weakly, she reached about her sides, tugging at the leather straps. She was in agony, in burning, restless, pain, and despite her efforts she couldn't remove the heavy plates from her form. Her chest shook with the effort of taking in breath, and will a shuddering rasp, her panicked eyes fluttered shut.

The instant they closed, her pain ceased. A rush of wind through her hair, the hay colored strands falling down her back, and she was detached. She looked around her, the palace hall replaced with a void of swirling smoke and ash. Their was nothing, no ground beneath her feet, no walls or ceiling. She held her breath, before letting out a trembling question.

"Have I passed?" The thought drained the blood from her face, and she brought a hand to her chest. Beneath her palm, her heart still beat, and she sighed. "Where am I?"

The slow churning of the vapor suddenly ceased, the lack of movement flaring her pulse. Then, as though it were alive, the vapor began to swirl into a semi solid humanoid, grotesque horns and twisted limbs moving like mist. "The Ashpit.." A deep voice hummed, seeming to originate from every location at once.

The Ashpit was a realm belonging to the daedra, a subject which Radella knew little about. She stayed away from the topic her entire life, the very thought of vile things tightening her stomach. She became a guard to stay in tune with reality, to protect others from the very evil she feared. And now it was before her, and she had hardly the strength to speak, let alone draw her blade.

The vapor figure dissipated in a quick, outward expansion, sending Radella in an accelerated spin, before appearing before her, looking more like a man than before. It's body was still semi-transparent, but the smoke arms had solidified enough to touch her, long claws scratching at her face. She cried out, kicking away as though submerged in water, only to be grabbed and pulled closer to whatever hellish beast was tormenting her.

Malicious laughter thumbed across the void, and she broke into sobs, the thickening smoke making it hard to function. A third arm appeared, scaled and muscular, and stabbed her stomach, the apparition sliding straight through her. Its claws twisted and snatched at her insides, tangible and intangible simultaneously. She closed her eyes tight, shaking and fighting with all of her might against thin air and random limbs. Hands grabbed her and held her down, voices clashing and meshing, indiscernible.

"RADELLA!" her name pierced through her consciousness, and with a strangled gasp she blinked her eyes open, tears blurring her vision. Despite the mixing of colors and light, she could tell she was back home, that perhaps the void world had been a simple illusion, a terrible nightmare that occurred during her waking hours. The faces of fellow guardsmen surrounded her, eyes concerned beneath their cerulean helms.

"Are you alright?" One of them asked, and she let her heart rate settle, taking deep breaths and nodding.

"What happened?" Another queried, an inkling of hesitance in their voice. Radella was reminded of the void, all the smoke and ash, and the creature that attacked her. Fear seized her and she bolted forwards, wiping her eyes and clutching at her waist.

Her armor, the heavy plates and fine mail underneath, had been torn away, leaving her exposed, smooth stomach underneath. Her gloved hands rubbed at the skin, which was unharmed, a terrible sense of dread overwhelming her.

Whatever had happened within the Ashpit, it was real, and she shivered to think just what the vile, otherworldly beast had wanted with her.

Or what it had done to her.


	2. Chapter 2

The wide, oppressive sky shook beneath the fury of the dragon's voice. It sent out vibrations through the ground and buildings, with greater force than an earthquake. With every booming quake, the panic frenzy of ant like figures fell and collided. The fortunate were crushed by falling debris, the others had to face the oncoming terror of fire raining down from above. Screams twisted the already lurching guts of the people, terrible cries over the death of loved ones or the horror it was to face one's own demise.

Benitoite, a young Orc male who had never been this far from the stronghold, never seen so much fire and blood, stood paralyzed with fear. Anxiety stabbed his gut repeatedly, churring his liquified insides and setting them to a boil. He stumbled and ran, hands tied tight behind his back and knees scratched from multiple falls.

He watched as people shoved one another in attempt to escape, imperial soldiers barking out orders most ignored. The black dragon, the beast as large as a house, circled the town repeatedly, wreaking havoc with his steel claws, fiery breath and gaping maw. Worst of all, was when the monster spoke. His voice was ancient and devastating and made the sky crumble.

Ben watched helplessly as a child ran into the dragon's blazed path, face reflected in it's wet, yellow fangs and shiny onyx scales. He desperately wished he could do something, to stop the boy whose hair blasted back with the dragon's exhale, only to be relieved as the child was snatched away and carried to temporary by another. The relief didn't last long, the great monster shooting from the ground and back into the atmosphere with one beat of it's awesome , leathery wings.

The Orc stumbled back, coughing at the dust and ash that filled his lungs. His heart ceased in his chest, shoulders trembling violently. He needed to move, but his shaking knees would let his legs function and all the Orc wanted to do was close his eyes and let it all end.

"Follow me!" A barking nordic voice commanded. A blonde man, the same one from before the sky split and hell came tumbling down, looked at him determinedly before bolting. His hands also tied, the most he could do was hunch his shoulders, the blue of his stormcloak uniform blacked with soot.

The world turned to ash and Ben ran.

They entered a shaking tower, greeted by choking sobs and panicked ramblings. Ben watched Ralof speak to them, attempt to comfort them through the cage of his own fear. Chills shot down the Orc's spine, and he along with Ralof who must've felt the same tug, rushed up the spiraling tower steps. The world shook again and the heavy Orc fell to the carved stone blocks, watching blearily as a man on the second floor was crushed by an exploding wall, killed instantly. The dragon stuck it's head in and snapped, dark, intelligent eyes of malice meeting the terrified cerulean eyes of the disoriented orsimer.

It pulled its carriage sized head back through the hole and departed jerkingly to the skies, it's devil like screech echoing in a thousand different voices. A shoulder shoved him forwards, barely able to move his rock like mass, and Ben took the hint, tumbling forwards in a top heavy sprint that sent him tumbling out the ruined tower. He fell like a stone, heavy and hard, rolling back onto his feet and crying out at the impact. He had landed within the second floor of a burning building, and the fog like substance burned his eyes and blurred his vision. Squinting Ben pressed forwards, falling down a hole to the first floor and running still. His chest and legs ached, arms sore from clumsy battering and wrists rubbed raw from his initial struggle against the bonds.

It all became a blur of fire and screams, then a light.

A young man, perhaps a few years older than he, was leading him away from the blaze, from the danger. He cut his bonds and gave him a weapon. He fought and bloodied his new weapons with blind eyes, doing his best to ignore the screams of the dying and the terror of the living.

Together, he and Raliof escaped, away into the snow kissed ground, the black dragon disappearing into the mountains.


End file.
